


Step by Stumbling Step

by PearlsAndRoses



Series: I never asked for love [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Double Penetration, F/M, Fluff, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Past Female Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age), Porn With Plot, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition - Trespasser DLC, Smut, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:34:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22531051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PearlsAndRoses/pseuds/PearlsAndRoses
Summary: Sorcha Lavellan has always said she’d return to her old life as soon as she could, but now that the Inquisition is disbanded, what does she have left to live for? Her clan is dead, her friends went their own way and Solas broke her heart—again. When Alistair tries to help, he gets pushed away. Hurt and lost, Sorcha has to find a way forward, whether it be with or without Alistair.Note:Can be read independently of the rest of the series.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Inquisitor, Alistair/Female Lavellan, Alistair/Zevran Arainai/Female Inquisitor, Alistair/Zevran Arainai/Female Lavellan
Series: I never asked for love [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1559443
Comments: 14
Kudos: 20





	1. What was left Unwritten

**Author's Note:**

> Starts with letters exchanged between King Alistair and Inquisitor Sorcha Lavellan around the time of Trespasser, but future chapters will be "normal" storytelling.

Dear Inquisitor Lavellan,

I hope you reached Skyhold safely, I know how treacherous the Frostbacks are. Though that might just be me. Did I tell you about the time a fennec stole my shirt and I ended up sliding down a snow-covered slope? Shirtless? Still haven’t found my shirt back to this day. Anyway, I’m sure you wouldn’t make such mistakes and your journey went just fine.

Sorry for the rambling, there is a point to this letter, I promise. Not that making sure you arrived home safely is not important, of course ~~, but~~. The point is that I wanted to thank you for visiting. Your company meant a lot to me and you showed me there was light on a day I’d thought forever shrouded in darkness. Since I don’t think I thanked you properly at the time, I hope you’ll accept this letter as a way of showing my gratitude. Not that it’s enough.

You might be happy to know that I decided to take on some tasks I should have started a long time ago. First on my list is to better the circumstances in the Alienages. Eamon said there were more important matters and that changing something that had always worked would only cause unrest, but I told him that elves are allowed to join the University in Val Royeaux. If Orlais can do that, then what kind of backwater is Ferelden to keep elves locked away? I know there are a few flaws in that argument, but it shut him up well enough.

I’m going to stop there, before I start rambling again. Maybe we will meet soon, I certainly hope so.

Sincerely,

Alistair Theirin, King of Ferelden

* * *

To His Majesty, Alistair Theirin, King of Ferelden,

What an honour to receive a letter from Your Majesty, I am utterly humbled. Really, though, I tell you to be king once— _once_ —and you start calling me by my title and put your full name plus title in your signature? Just a little longer and you’ll be walking around with a stick up your ass. Would be a waste of finely sculpted ass.

As for the other things you mentioned, I’m glad you’re doing better and that I could help in some way. I might make fun of you and your titles, but know that you’re one of the few people I’d trust to be a good ruler. 

About good rulers, I’ll be happy to be done with this Inquisition stuff. Too many stuffy meetings, a neverending line of people wanting to meet me and eyes following me everywhere. Fortunately, I got to spend a few weeks with the Avvar, they’re a good people and seeing the sun rise over the Frostback basin was breathtaking. I haven’t felt that carefree in such a long time, it was like the sunlight and clear air cleansed me from all worries and I could just _be_. No busy schedules, only the here and now. It reminded me of ~~home~~ my clan. When all of this is over, I might go to live with those Avvar.

Sorcha

* * *

Dear Sorcha,

While I appreciate your concern about my behind, I was just trying to be a good king, using the proper titles and all that stuff. Besides, for all I know your dutiful ambassador reads your correspondence. Have to make sure my letters are appropriate. (And I know you’re reading this, Leliana. I’d tell you to stop if I thought it would work.)

I hope I, as King, won’t betray your trust. And I think you’re doing great as Inquisitor. You kept Thedas from being swallowed by demons, that has to count for something, right? I suppose those demons might disagree. Haven’t asked them. I’d take you over a demon every day, though.* 

About the Avvar, are you sure you won’t freeze to death down there? Or is it “up there” because of the mountains? And from what I’ve heard, certain goods (Orlesian cheese comes to mind) are hard to get there. On a more serious note, and please forgive me if I’m being too forward, but is there a reason you won’t go back to your clan? 

Warm regards, 

Alistair

*I… did not mean it like that, I swear. Not that I meant I’d rather have a demon. Who would want that? Please don’t answer. ~~I’ll just~~ I’ll just end this letter here.

* * *

Dear Alistair,

In case it worries you, Josephine doesn’t read my private correspondence. Leliana… Well, you know her. It’s not like there’s anything she doesn’t know anyway. Still, being cautious about certain things doesn’t hurt, you’re right about that.

I won’t return to my clan because they are gone. Dead. There is nothing left for me to return to. I could try to find another clan to live with, but there is no guarantee they will take me in without my vallaslin. It is complicated and I do not expect you to understand. 

Sorcha

P.S. Will you be attending the Exalted Council? It would make the whole ordeal a whole lot—forgive my choice of words—more pleasurable?

P.P.S. I wouldn’t try “taking” demons. They might seem fun, but their tendency to murder you sort of kills the mood, don’t you think? Unless that’s your thing. I won’t judge.

* * *

Dear Sorcha,

I’m sorry for not being at the Exalted Council. Some things came up that I had to deal with. I won’t bore you with the details, just know I’d much rather have been ~~with you.~~ at the Council. Even though the Qunari decided to organise a surprise party. You’d think the worst thing about Orlais would be the Orlesians. Turns out the Qunari are even worse.

More apologies about how everything went with Teagan. I should have known his grudge against the Inquisition would cause trouble, but Fergus couldn’t go because his wife was about to give birth to their second child. Have I told you they made me the child’s godfather? A weighty responsibility. 

Anyway, I doubt Teagan’s behaviour was the cause for your decision. I quite admire that you told them it was “time for all of you to get your own shit together. The Inquisition is disbanded”. Those were your words, right?

I am not sure what to say about your clan. “I’m sorry” probably doesn’t help much. I hope you’ll find a place to call home again. Until then, you’re always welcome in Denerim. I don’t know what it’s like to lose your clan, but I do know how it feels to be no longer part of something. For a short while I was eager to spent my life with the Grey Wardens, but then, you know what happened. Though I suppose part of me will always be tied to them. Can’t stop being a Warden. It’s complicated too.

I wish I could’ve been there for you or could at least be there now.

Lots of well-wishes,

Alistair

* * *

Dear Sorcha,

How are you? Things must’ve been crazy for you, so I understand it if you didn’t find time to respond to my letter. 

I’m writing you to tell you I’ll be visiting Skyhold for the negotiations later this month. Do you think there’s a change the meetings will be short and friendly? Stupid question. Will there be good food?

Looking forward to seeing you soon.

Best wishes,

Alistair

* * *

Her hand trembled as she tore the letter to shreds; the stump of her arm holding the paper against her body, her hand ripping it apart. 

The paper burned and blackened in the fire that was of no use against the chill inside her. She’d been foolish to think that a man to share the night with would be enough to drive _him_ away. He’d left his mark on her, first by giving, then by taking away again and again. 

No tears fell, only strands of dark hair that joined the last snippets of glowing paper.


	2. Being a Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Struggling to keep herself together, Sorcha doesn't dare let anyone come close, least of all Alistair. He refuses to be pushed aside that easily.

Alistair’s stomach grumbled loud enough to cause some sidelong glances in his direction. He shifted his weight, trying and failing to find a comfortable position on the plain wooden chair. His shoulders were stiff from hours of sitting and his thoughts drifted like those eagles he’d seen soaring high in the air above the mountaintops. While he seemed unable to keep track of the negotiations, he was overly aware of each sound, every movement Sorcha made, sitting at the head of the table. One seat separated them. One seat and the impenetrable wall of ice she’d drawn up.

Alistair slumped, tracing the wood grain with one finger as he recalled the previous day.

* * *

Tired from travelling, yet glad to be breathing the crisp mountain air instead of getting soaking wet from the autumn rains, he and his small party arrived at Skyhold’s gate shortly before sundown. Right in time for dinner. He gave a satisfied nod at the thought of a warm bowl of hot stew in his hands. Not that his hands were freezing like last time he’d made this journey, his fennec lined gloves saw to that. They were warm and soft and comfortable. A most thoughtful gift Sorcha had sent him after her visit to the Avvar some months ago. 

Sorcha. A glow deep down his stomach drove away all his objections to the frosty nights in the mountains. He wouldn’t mind spending a cold, cold night in a tent together with her. Though she _did_ hog the blankets.

The guard before him cleared his throat, pulling Alistair back to the here and now. He blinked a few times at the man. What had he just said?

“Your name and reason for visiting, please, sir?” the guard asked with the tired patience of someone who had to repeat himself.

“Alistair Theirin, King of Ferelden. Here for the meeting to discuss what’s going to happen to the Inquisition’s people, and to Skyhold and all that.” He waved his hand at the mountains around him. 

A blush rushed up from the base of the man’s neck, colouring his face with red spots. “Of course, Your Majesty. Please, beg your pardon. Your Majesty.” He tried to make a bow while stepping aside to let Alistair through, causing him to stumble into his companion, who seemed equally embarrassed at not having recognised the King of Ferelden. 

He brushed off their apologies; how could they have know who he was when he travelled without any clear indication of it? Eamon had admonished him about his travel preferences multiple times, but Alistair thought the confusion funny rather than insulting. Besides, people told him more when they thought him a random soldier.

Leaving the guards behind, they crossed the bridge. He glanced down, only to quickly focus on the solid stone right ahead, a queasy feeling in his stomach. Better not to think about falling— Oh, well, too late now. He grimaced as the gaping depth pulled his eyes to it again. A steep slope with sharp outcrops led down into misty nothingness. Darkness would’ve been better than the drifting fog that seemed to creep up to swallow him.

His horse snorted at feeling his tension and he forced his gaze back to the bridge and Skyhold’s walls looming over him. Behind those walls, she would be waiting. His stomach turned again, this time not because of the chasm below, but from a mixture of feelings he couldn’t quite untangle. 

She hadn’t responded to his last two letters. No doubt she’d been busy, but still… He shouldn’t feel this way, had no right to feel this way when they had an unspoken agreement that their time together was fun and nothing more. Unspoken agreements held no sway over how he felt, though, and excitement swirled in his chest with each step they took closer to Skyhold. She would be there.

She wasn’t there to greet them when they entered the courtyard, nor was she there when Ambassador Montilyet welcomed them in her shiny golden shirt. He was shown his quarters for the stay and couldn’t help the muffled pang of disappointment when there was no sign of her there either. Not that he’d expected her to be waiting for him, but maybe a note, a bottle of wine with two glasses, anything that would show she’d been thinking of him. Maker knew he’d been thinking of her.

At least she’d be there at dinner. Focusing on that thought, he washed himself and changed into a set of clean clothes. Before long, the dinner bell rang and he made his way to the dining hall.

The foolish grin spreading over his face froze when she looked up at him. Dark circles under hollow eyes that regarded him with cold indifference. Her hair was cut short—messy, he’d thought from a distance, but it turned out to be ragged, like someone had blindly cut off strands.

“Your Majesty.” She gestured to the empty seat next to her. Right, it was important to keep up appearances. Only now did he notice the other guests sitting at the table. Orlesians easily recognised by their richly decorated dress, a few nobles from Ferelden, several others he couldn’t place. All had some interest in what would happen after the Inquisition left.

“Inquisitor,” he said, dipping his chin at her. “A pleasure to be here.”

She didn’t smile, barely acknowledged his greeting. With an empty look she turned her attention back to the dish before her. After she took a slice of meat from one of the platters, the others followed.

Conversations popped up around them while Alistair chewed on his food. From the corner of his eye, he watched Sorcha listlessly prick the meat several times with her fork in her only remaining hand. Couldn’t be easy, that. None of the servants showed any sign of helping. Did they expect her to just put the entire slab on her fork and chew it bite by bite?

She gulped down her wine, then motioned to get her cup refilled. 

Before she could finish her refilled cup as quickly as the first, he cut several pieces of his own meat and pricked one of it on his fork. “Have you tried this, my lady? It’s quite excellent.”

Her head shot up at his words. “I,” she stammered, “I’m not very hungry, thank you.” Panic crossed her face before it turned back to being an emotionless mask. 

“You don’t want any salad either? Even I think it’s good and that’s saying something.” Putting on a grin he didn’t feel, he munched on a mouthful of… leaves. With... stuff. Oh, there was goat cheese in there as well, that was good.

Sorcha put her fork on her plate and her chair screeched on the wooden floor as she pushed it away from the table. “If you would excuse me.” She rose without meeting his gaze—or anyone else’s for that matter. 

The subtle turn of heads and hush in conversation reminded Alistair that everyone was watching her. And him too. Careful. 

Loud enough to be heard by the other guests—no use in trying to be sneaky—Alistair said, “Before you leave, I have one request, if I may?” He took the shrug of slender shoulders underneath a loose-fitting tunic for a yes. “Could one of your servants show me back to my quarters after dinner? I got lost two, no, three times last time I was here. And that was all in the tavern.” 

Still no smile. He had to admit that wasn’t a very funny, but he had to try, hadn’t he? Besides, the important bit was that she knew he was there for her if that was what she wanted. If she would let him. 

“Just ask any of them.” With another shrug, she turned around and left.

Conversation picked up again and many stated they hoped “the Inquisitor is doing well”. As if they couldn’t see she very much wasn’t doing well. As if they even cared about her. 

Suddenly, the meat was stringy and dry, the vegetables mushy and tasteless. His neighbour, a Fereldan Bann, started talking to him and he hummed at the appropriate moments. His thoughts, however, were with Sorcha. She hadn’t given any indication of wanting to see him. Was her disinterest a display she put on to keep up pretence? Did she truly not care or had he done something wrong, written something that had angered her? What _had_ happened at the Exalted Council to make her lose her arm?

* * *

“I hereby call an end to this meeting.” The determination in Sorcha’s voice carried through the room for everyone to hear, but few heard the weary “Done” she muttered below her breath. Sitting at her left hand, Leliana was one of those few and from the worried frown Alistair gave Sorcha, she was confident he had heard it as well. 

One could call it amusing, how the man had been lost in daydreams for most of the meeting, yet his head shot up like a dog hearing his owner come home each time Sorcha spoke. Leliana herself did not think it amusing in the slightest; she had warned both of them of the dangers of their involvement, had she not? Nevertheless, she felt more pity than anger at the empty-eyed elf with her pale face who was Inquisitor no longer. 

Sorcha got up and left without giving anyone a chance to accompany her or ask any questions. Her shoulders slumped like a heavy burden had been placed on them. That wasn’t as it should be; now that the Inquisition was officially disbanded and the last meeting was done with, Sorcha had no more responsibilities to weigh her down. Except Solas, but had they not agreed that Leliana would take care of building a new network of contacts? Sorcha had told her what she needed to know and, in the words unspoken, had given away much of what had happened in that strange place behind the mirrors.

It stung, dear Andraste, how it stung to not only have missed the Qunari ploy, but to have been living under the same roof as what turned out to be an ancient elf, one the Dalish called a god. She’d known he kept secrets, but then, who didn’t? His elegant speech and wondrous stories had blinded her when she should have questioned his convenient arrival as well as his sudden disappearance. 

When Sorcha had told her Solas had been the one responsible for Justinia’s death— No, this was not the place to think of matters like that. She breathed out slowly, controlled, her jaw unclenching as her hand touched the dagger hidden at her waist. She would not let him go freely.

The sound of a chair being pushed back pulled her back to the meeting room. Alistair had risen from the table and now ran a hand through his hair before making his way to the door with the determined step of a man who had made a decision. A decision that would get his heart broken. She could not let that happen. Not wasting time listening to gossip, she followed him.

“Sorcha, wait.” Alistair’s voice carried through the hallway, reaching Leliana before she saw him. Notes of desperation vibrated in the air when he added, “Please.”

Let Sorcha move on, let her not ignore him, Leliana prayed, the soft leather of her boots not making a sound. It was not a kind thing to wish for, but the alternative would be far more cruel. 

Another step took her around the corner, into view of the staircase leading up to one of Skyhold’s towers. Alistair stood at the bottom, one hand on the handrail. He was looking up at something beyond the curve of the stairs, his brow creased.

“Please,” he repeated. This time, his voice was soft, barely audible.

Too late. Caught up in her own plans, she had once again been blind to what happened right before her eyes until it was too late. Bitterness spread through her chest as she watched his eyebrows rise with expectation when Sorcha came into view, her silken tunic hanging limply around her body.

Sorcha’s dark-circled eyes narrowed and she stopped several steps away from Alistair, leaving him to look up at her. “What do you want?”

Leliana winced in Alistair’s place at those sharp words. 

With stubborn optimism, he turned his grimace into a smile. “Let me see. How about a cup of dark ale, a bowl of warm stew and perhaps some good company? You don’t happen to be able to help with that?” When Sorcha didn’t answer, he sighed. “Talk. I want to talk.”

“You had your chance to talk this entire day. Meeting’s over now. You have complaints about any decisions, take it to someone else,” Sorcha said in clipped tones.

For the length of a heartbeat, Alistair seemed about to give up. His hand slipped off the handrail and he lowered his head a fraction. Then, the determination that smouldered below his gentle surface flared and he placed his foot firmly on the first step.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it. You’ve been avoiding me ever since I arrived and I want to know why.” He reached out to touch her arm, but she flinched back. Hurt crossed his face and his fierceness was laced by hesitation when he continued, “I’m not expecting you to— I only want to—” A deep breath in, shoulders squaring. “Listen, you’re clearly hurt and I want to be there for you as your friend. Nothing else.”

The look Sorcha gave him would be enough to make most people shiver and turn away. To his credit, Alistair stood unwavering, his eyes not leaving her face. People often mistook his jokes and kind-hearted nature for weakness, they expected him to yield at the least sign of resistance, but Leliana knew better. She’d seen him fight during the Blight and she had been there when he had convinced the Landsmeet to accept him and Anna-Lise as King and Queen when the Blight would be over. He might keep the fire inside him well-hidden, but it was there and perhaps it had a chance of burning through the walls Sorcha had pulled up around her. 

“You’re not my friend.”

“Oh, no. You’re not going to get rid of me that easily. The time we spent together has to count for something. You can’t pretend you don’t like me.” Alistair placed his other foot on the step, leaving him at a height with her. 

Bards would tell about how he could smell her sweet perfume of crystal grace and fresh apples, they would sing about how she saw the pulse in his neck from his rapid beating heart. They would make their audience gasp when telling how he captured her lips with his, how her mouth opened to let him in and how they made love all through the star-lit night.

Reality was never like those stories, that was a lesson she had learned long ago. 

Sorcha did not lean over, nor did she step back, yet the distance between them turned into an unbridgeable chasm when she said, “That’s the past. Just like the Inquisition. I’m done with it.” Her face turned into a sneer. “I’m done with you.”

Silence rippled through the air around her, freezing everything in its wake. Oh, how the shards of a broken heart could cut.

“I. I see.” Alistair stepped down, rocking slightly as if feeling unwell. While Sorcha fled upstairs, he leaned against the wall, closing his eyes for a moment. 

Leliana’s fingers tightened around her useless dagger. Too late. Nothing she could do would help against the pain written on her friend’s face. 

Years ago, she had stood upon the roof of Fort Drakon, face to face with an archdemon and a horde of darkspawn and she had made a promise to a dear friend. She’d promised Anna-Lise to keep Alistair from harm, right before the woman had run off to sacrifice herself for the greater good. A most noble action, one that made her a hero and the main figure of many tales. No tales were ever told about the ones left behind, the ones who had to find a way to go on with their lives.

And after all those years, Alistair had finally moved on, only to be beaten down once again. She should have seen it coming, she should have protected him, just like she should have been there to protect Justinia. There was one difference however: Justinia no longer lived, while Alistair was standing there, breathing through his pain. Perhaps there was something she could do still. Something to keep that old promise, something that might make up for some of the hurt she had let Sorcha run into.

Before he would open his eyes and see her, she turned and went to her quarters. She had a spy network to rebuild, an elven god to track down and several threats to the new Divine to eliminate, but all of that would have to wait. Her friend— _friends_ —needed her and she would do anything in her power to make sure she would not fail.

It was time for a letter to someone who knew and understood heartbreak better than he would let on, someone who had stood beside her on that dark night.


	3. A Helping Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you need to break before you can heal.

Light together with a wave of tangled voices spilt over Sorcha as she opened the tavern door. She halted on the doorstep. Not too late to go back, into the darkness settling over the rolling hills. It would be quiet out there. Lonely. Easy. But no, she’d promised Leliana to meet this “important contact”. Sinking further into her hooded cape, she stepped inside.

At least it was clean. Cleaner than most taverns she’d visited and it wasn’t quite as loud either. Made it harder to remain unnoticed, though. People—shems—were eating and laughing and drinking. She’d better get a drink too. Careful not to venture too close to anyone, or to be caught staring, she made her way over to the bar, where the voice of a balding man in a stained apron drowned out all other conversations as he was talking to two of his customers. Before she could decide whether to interrupt or search for her contact first, he turned to her, his elbow missing a glass by no more than a hair’s width. Not that he noticed.

“Perfect! Been expecting you. Table at the back, near the door to the guestrooms.” He gestured to one of the far corners, where nooks offered some privacy to the ones seated at the tables. So far for the hood. Must’ve been her eyes that gave her away. Once, it had been her vallaslin.

A shake of her head made the hood fall down, leaving her ears exposed to anyone. “I’d like some—”

“Of course.” He filled a mug with ale and handed it to her. When she reached for the pouch at her belt, he said, “Your companion told me he’d pay for anything you might need.”

“How kind,” Sorcha mumbled, then took a gulp from the mild, fruity beer. Not what she’d wanted, but it’d do. For now.

Shadows crowded around her as she made her way to the back of the room, the voices that had greeted her turning into no more than a low background hum. An elf caught her eye, sinuous lines tattooed on the side of his face like he’d wanted to mimic vallaslin. It wasn’t anywhere close. She took another gulp of the beer, and, with the mug now half-empty, closed the distance to the table. 

At seeing the elf’s companion, she stopped. Suddenly, there was no air to fill her lungs. Sitting behind the screen that separated the nook, he’d been hidden until it was too late. But there was no mistaking that reddish-blond hair. Those broad shoulders. A long nose and a mouth that curved into a smile as he said something to the elf before turning around. To face her. His smile froze as quickly as her step. Her fingers tightened around her mug, cold seeping into them. _Fenedhis, what was_ he _doing here?_

She stood still, trapped by his gaze, for what felt like an eternity but couldn’t have been more than a few heartbeats. The touch of a hand on her arm shattered the ice that had crept up around her and she jerked back.

“Ah, but I did not mean to startle you,” the elf said, taking her mug before she could object. “You must be Sorcha, yes? My name is Zevran and I believe you know my friend. It seems Leliana neglected to tell me you were not only cunning but also beautiful. Please, do join us.”

 _Run!_ her mind screamed, but the elf’s hand guided her to the table. She shrugged it off. “It seems Leliana forgot to tell me some things as well,” she sneered and remained standing at the table.

Alistair blinked, then narrowed his eyes. “She did, didn’t she?” He looked from her to the elf, his head tilting like he did when he was thinking hard. “Is this supposed to be some kind of set-up, Zevran?” he asked, a sharp edge to his voice that she hadn’t heard before.

Zevran’s fake vallaslin rose together with his eyebrows. “A set-up? But why would I do that, my friend? Sorcha has important information to share with us, yes?”

An expectant silence while she kept her gaze on her beer on the table—she really needed something stronger. “I suppose.” 

After going over it again and again, the story had almost turned into a tale a bard would sing, something distant that could do no harm. Almost. A pang of pain and she gripped at her arm, to find emptiness. How could something that wasn’t there hurt so much? The two men gave her curious looks but didn’t say anything as she slumped down on the bench and pulled her mug back to her from where Zevran had placed it. 

Part of her wondered why she even cared about what would happen to Thedas, there wasn’t much left for her anyway. Easier to turn her back to the shems than to fight a battle that held nothing for her to win, only more to lose. But she’d promised Leliana, promised her she would explain things once more to this mysterious contact. Alistair being there was unexpected, but it made sense; he was king, people depended on him for protection and to do that, he needed to know what was going on. 

“You’re right, I do have some things to explain,” she eventually said.

“Excellent. Let us go to a private room to discuss, then, and perhaps you would like to have a meal? I am afraid they only serve that bland mush Fereldans call stew, however.” Zevran was already gesturing to the innkeeper at the bar.

Sorcha shrugged. Everything seemed to taste like bland mush as of late. At least a stew would be easy to eat. She glanced at Alistair who’d kept silent during her exchange with Zevran. He ran a hand through his hair when he noticed her watching him and she could see his shoulders tense underneath the shirt that was a tad too tight. 

“Food would be good,” he said, hair tousled. A temporary truce.

Zevran guided them to a room larger than they could possibly need. A bed with a dresser stood on the left, before a screen that separated the far corner, creating a private place to bathe. The left corner had a table with four seats placed around it and a fireplace in which the remains of a fire glowed, abandoned. Like the coals in her room in Skyhold, the morning she’d left.

A hollow feeling spread in her chest and she quickly sat down at the table, hooking her feet behind the chair’s legs to keep from pulling her legs close and curling up. A shiver ran through her. Maybe they could go back to the tavern’s main room, it had been nice and warm back there. 

“I see you detest this terribly cold climate as much as I, hmm? Let us see if we can make it more comfortable here.” 

Sorcha stayed quiet as Zevran placed some more wood on the embers. Alistair sat down opposite her, as far away as possible. Another shiver and again, electricity shot through an arm not there. 

“Are you.” Alistair searched her face and with stubborn strength, she held his gaze. “Are you all right?” he eventually asked.

 _No. No, I’m not. So very much not._ “Yes.”

He gave a short nod before shifting his attention to Zevran, who sat down on the chair standing in between them. Food arrived moments later.

* * *

Her spoon rattled in her empty mug as she sat back. The other two stayed quiet like they were expecting more. Pity for them, that had been all the information she could offer. 

“All right,” Alistair said when she didn’t continue. “That’s it?” He rolled his shoulders back and once again, she couldn’t help but notice how the shirt spanned around his upper body. Hardly befitting a king, to be wearing a shirt that was too small. But then, this wasn’t any king, this was Alistair. He wouldn’t know his socks needed mending even if his toes poked through the holes.

“That was quite a story, mia bella.” Zevran’s flirty remarks and numerous endearments might’ve irritated her another time, but right now, it was better than pity or prying curiosity. “Now I suppose we should come up with a plan to stop this Solas?”

“Interfering with an elven god, easy, right? I’m sure nothing could go wrong with that,” Alistair said, eyebrows quirking in a way that used to make her smile.

Interfering, that was what she’d done even though she didn’t know it at the time. Had been easy enough right until it wasn’t. He had warned her, told her they shouldn’t, but she hadn’t listened. She’d always took pride in her ability to make the right decisions, to do what was right for the clan and later for the Inquisition, but that pride had blinded her when it came to decisions regarding herself.

She leaned over to take the bottle that had been standing unopened at the table during the entire dinner. They didn’t need her anymore, so she might as well make herself more comfortable. 

Zevran snagged the wine before she reached it. “Bella, you look tense. You should allow yourself to relax a little, yes?” He clacked his tongue in disapproval.

Glaring at the bottle he was holding, Sorcha said, “That’s what the wine is for, isn’t it?”

“It might help for now, but think of the headache you’ll have tomorrow morning. If you don’t mind, I know some far more pleasurable ways to help you release that stress.” His Antivan accent laced every word with innuendo as if to lure her in. She wanted to sneer at the almost arrogant confidence with which he spoke. As if he could solve her problems with that smooth voice and his nimble fingers.

“Riiight,” Alistair’s voice pitched with unease, “I’ll be going then.”

Zevran turned to him. “My friend, please do not leave us without hearing me out. I was talking about an Antivan massage, nothing untoward. In fact, you could be of great help massaging her feet, maybe her legs. I’m sure Sorcha must be tired from a long day of travelling, yes?”

She bit back a reply that the Dalish were used to travelling and, as a hunter, she could go on for days without a problem. She no longer was a hunter—was she even Dalish?—a fact underlined by her sore calves. Sitting around in Skyhold, talking nonsense with visitors and reading endless reports had changed her. Something would have to be done about her poor condition, but for now, a massage sounded acceptable. It sounded lovely, even, but she wasn’t going to admit that to Zevran; no need to make him feel smug. There was also the matter of the heavy innuendo from before. How honest was the word of an assassin?

“A massage?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Indeed. I learned these skills in the whorehouse where I grew up.” _A whorehouse?_ Her thought must’ve shown on her face, for he added, “But rest assured, I mean a massage and nothing more. Unless you change your mind, of course.”

She winced at the casual offer made right in front of Alistair. Did he know of them? No, there was no “them”, never had been, she corrected herself. Then why did she hesitate? Nothing wrong with accepting a massage. 

“Sounds good.”

“Alistair?”

Tilted head. “If that’s what you want.” Her hand curled into a fist at his indifference. It stung like the point of an arrow stuck in her chest, but she wasn’t going to let him know that.  
An arrow she couldn’t remove for fear of hurting even more, better to endure the pain she knew than to risk another gaping wound.

“There’s a washing basin over there.” Zevran gestured to the folding screen. “There are also towels. If you are comfortable with it, I would suggest you wear only a towel and lay down on the bed. We won’t look until you say so.” At his teasing tone, a familiar glow in her stomach took away some of the pain of Alistair’s indifference. 

She did as he said and laid down on the bed, her simple clothes replaced by a towel around her hips. The sheets were cool and smooth against her skin, traces of the sweet smell of summer clinging to the pillows. A summer that had passed without her noticing. Before she could get sucked into that dark place of her mind, a muscle cramped in her calf, reminding her of the reason she was lying on this bed.

“I’m ready.” She looked over her shoulder to see Zevran come over to stand beside her, holding a flask of dark glass. Smiling at her—a smile that hinted at more, yet made her trust him to keep his word—he removed the cork and poured some oil in his cupped hand. He then handed the flask over to Alistair, whose eye she didn’t dare catch.

Creators, what was she doing here? Naked, in a private room with two men who’d agreed to give her a massage. This was all just… stupid. Strange. Uncomfortable. And the fact that she’d slept with one of them made it even weirder.

“You may close your eyes if you wish, bella,” Zevran said with his melodious Antivan accent. “May I start?”

She let out a long sigh. He made it seem so natural, like there was nothing to be uncomfortable about and maybe there wasn’t. “Yes.”

He moved his hands with slow, long strokes over the entire length of her back, working the oil into her skin. After a moment, other hands closed around a foot, a thumb pressing into the spot just below the ball of her feet where the arch began. With each stroke of Zevran, each circle pressed into the soles of her feet, her breath deepened and tension slipped away. Her eyelids fluttered shut.

Warm hands moved over her body, taking away the chill that had seeped into her bones in the months prior. Pressure ebbed and flowed, giving her something to focus her mind on while her body relaxed. When Zevran reached the base of her neck and moved his fingers through her hair in circles, she hummed her approval. On the other side of the bed, Alistair let his fingers slide between her toes before moving up to massage her calves. This was sheer bliss.

Down her spine and up again, around her shoulders and over her sides. Her breath caught when he reached her waist and elicited a tingle that wasn’t quite as innocent as a tickle. 

“All right?” Zevran said in a low voice, withdrawing his hands.

A shuddering breath. “I. I am. Please, go on,” she whispered back. No thinking, just feeling. She moved her arms aside as if to invite him to touch her there again. He did. This time, she controlled her breath while he traced the curve of her waist down to the towel, where he stopped. As promised. 

Trusting him, her mind drifted off while her body relished each touch. Heat pooled in her stomach, sinking down between her legs. No thinking. Hands moved from her neck to her collarbone, around her throat, making her shudder.

Alistair’s touch lost its steady rhythm, but the pressure of his thumbs increased and she groaned. Or maybe it was more a moan. She wasn’t sure. He continued more gently, but it wasn’t enough anymore.

More, she wanted more. _“Unless you change your mind, of course.”_ Had she changed her mind?

“Zev…” her voice trailed off and both men stopped. She kept her eyes shut, feeling, not thinking about what she wanted. “I want more.”

Zevran hummed, moving to touch the towel that had been a safe barrier until now. “Do you wish for me to take it off?”

Alistair made a noise she couldn’t place, but she refused to think about it. Just feel. “Yes, please.”

The air felt cool on her exposed butt and she tensed when Zevran touched her, but he merely began massaging her back once again. Before long, her muscles loosened and she sighed happily when Alistair took her feet again. Warmth flowed through her with each touch and when Zevran moved his hands down her hips, she didn’t hesitate to spread her legs. She was ready.

Torturously slow, he moved up the inside of her thighs, his fingers leaving hot traces on her skin. He stopped a mere finger width from where she wanted him, going down as leisurely as he’d gone up. Trying not to think about what Alistair was seeing and thinking from his place at her feet—and sure that there was no way to hide her arousal from either of them—she spread her legs further, lifting her hips slightly. This time, Zevran’s touch down there was light like the wings of a butterfly. Before she could move down to make it more, he withdrew. He continued his teasing until her body felt like she was on fire and she was sure she’d come the moment he would touch her clit. He didn’t.

“Mia bella, would you turn around for us? And Alistair, perhaps you could aid me? Only if you both agree, of course.” It took a few heartbeats for his words to make sense and only then did she notice Alistair’s hands had disappeared.

With a nervous flutter, she turned around to face Zevran. This should be enough to show she wanted the two of them to continue, but neither did. Zevran raised an eyebrow, followed by an almost imperceptible nod towards the other side of her bed. His message was clear: she should explicitly tell Alistair what she wanted.

“Alistair.” His name felt pleasant on her lips even after— No, no thinking. “I would like it if you continued. If you want.” 

A pause, then he nodded and repeated the answer he’d given before, “If that’s what you want.” However, indifference had made place for a huskiness and an edge of tension that made her widen her eyes. Oh, but how she wanted him.

Before she could have another thought, he spread her legs and his mouth closed on her. She arched her back with a moan. No slow start with thousands of sweet caresses, but she didn’t need those. His tongue flicking around her clit sent shocks through her and her hips grinded against him when he dipped inside her to lap up her wetness. He wanted her as much as she wanted him.

Another pulse, this time from her nipple. She buried her hand in Zevran’s hair, urging him to go on with his careful biting, both men driving her closer and closer to her climax. Her body writhed beneath their touches, arching, bending, anything to get closer to those wonderful sensations that flooded her.

She moaned at a less than gentle pull at her nipple, fingers curling in messy hair, right when Alistair circled his tongue against her clit. Just a little more... She reached down to press him too against her and—

A wordless cry as pain took the place of pleasure. Pain so cold it burned shot up her arm and she pulled away, cradling her stump. She gasped but no air filled her lungs, she moved her mouth but no words sounded. Hurt, it all hurt so damn much. Why didn’t it stop? The anchor was gone. Her hand was gone. Her fucking arm was gone! And as if that wasn’t enough _he_ —

“Sorcha!” Zevran shaking her shoulder pulled her back to the present, where two people were looking at her miserable, unclothed form. 

She curled up tighter.

“Breath, mia bella,” he said while rubbing her good arm. He took a deep breath in and she tried to follow his example, but her breaths were shaky, more like gasps. She clenched her teeth. She wouldn’t let something that wasn’t even there hurt her this much. Air hissed between her teeth. In, out, in, out. Little by little, the stabbing pain dissipated. 

When she let go of her arm and leaned back against the pillows, Zevran cupped her face, drawing circles from her forehead to her jaw, then along her neck and shoulders. His fingers trailed down her arms in lines as sinuous as his tattoos. She reached out to touch them and surprise flickered on his face, turned to a slow smile when he asked,

“Do you like them?” 

Going along with his flirting was easy. “Maybe.”

“Ah, but then you should know I have more on my back and…” He sat back, though he kept his hand on her shoulder. “And Alistair knows where else. Did you know he once asked me if I could give him some tattoos as well?”

Her lips pulled upwards in a smile. “He did?”

“Oh, yes. To my never-ending sadness, he did not want to continue after I told him about the entire ritual.”

“Hey, that’s not fair,” Alistair protested. “I was simply curious about the process, you know? No need to make me look like a coward.” The twitch at the corner of his mouth belied his indignant tone.

A foolish giggle escaped her. “I think they would look great on you. Such a shame you didn’t get them.” 

“You think so?” he asked.

Suddenly, she was all too aware of how naked she was and how she’d been moaning and wriggling at the touch of him and Zevran. She swallowed hard. No way to get back to those simple pleasures now. The best time she’d had in a long while and she’d messed it all up.

Zevran’s hot breath stroked her ear and she perched upright. “How about you have us both, bella?”

“Have you both? How...” She sounded as stupid as she felt. Did he mean? He couldn’t mean?

“Hmm-hmm. With you on top of one of us, the other could take you from behind, so to speak.” 

A red glow spread all over her face. While she wouldn’t consider herself prudish, Zevran’s casual discussion of sex was something else entirely. And to have two men… The throbbing between her legs was a strong reminder of how close she’d been to her climax. The insides of her thighs rubbed slick against each other. Creators, she could smell her own lust. How depraved was she to even consider this? But was it wrong to want to feel good, just for one night?  
“I’ve never. From behind, I mean,” she stammered. The sheets wrinkled as she curled her toes. “But I’d like to try. If you want?” She didn’t dare raise her eyes to look at the one she was asking. 

His reply was quick and short. “Yes.”

“Good, great! Nothing to worry about, we will have some fun times together, yes? I’d suggest you take the bottom place, Alistair, lest you squish us delicate elves.”

She chuckled at that. 

Alistair huffed. “Sorry, I didn’t check my calendar, is today ‘Lets-bash-Alistair-day’? Wouldn’t want to miss that.” After a grin at Sorcha, he added, “In my defence, I have been training with the soldiers daily.”

“I noticed.” Another rush of blood went to her cheeks and her heart beat too fast when he held her gaze. Now he knew she’d been observing him in _that_ way.

Zevran broke the silence, “Now, I think it entirely unfair we’ve been letting the lady sit naked while we are fully clothed, right? How about we remedy that injustice?” 

After a silent exchange between the two, Zevran began undressing Alistair. The too-tight shirt was discarded, broad shoulders bringing back memories of how she’d clung to him, how she’d bitten him during their times together. Zevran’s shirt made way for a more slender, yet toned body with scars all over. Trousers went next. Heat between her legs at seeing bulges pressed against loose undergarments. Zevran teased his finger over Alistair’s waistband, making the other man hiss.

Sorcha bit her lip. She wasn’t going to sit back and wait for them. 

In one swift movement, she was kneeling on the side of the bed in front of Alistair, her hand joining Zevran’s. Together, they pulled the underpants down. She took his length in her mouth, as deep as she could before coming up. Her cheeks hollowed, she moved up and down his shaft until he was fully erect and rocking into her. With the flick of a tongue, she could make him come undone.

A nudge on her shoulder made her stop. With glazed eyes, Alistair nodded at Zevran, who was observing them while stroking himself. Right, she shouldn’t forget him.

Not knowing what he would and wouldn’t like, she swirled her tongue around his tip before slowly taking him in. He let her set her own rhythm and she went faster and faster at the thought of Alistair watching her pleasure another man. Did he like it? The throbbing between her legs grew stronger. He had encouraged her. Was he imagining her mouth around him right now? Her moan filled the room when Zevran pulled back. 

Both men were looking at her with undisguised lust and, damn, she wanted them. Wanted them to fuck her until she came and came and came.

Alistair pulled her along as he laid down. His length was firm between her legs and she slid back and forth, coating him with her wetness before letting him fill her. Trembling as she held on to the last threads of her self-control, she slid down on top of him. Hot and hard and large enough to stretch her. She buried her head in the crook of his neck, breathing in his smell while she relished the feeling of him inside her.

A drip of liquid on her behind made her yelp and Zevran chuckled. “Try to relax, bella. But if you would want for me to stop, don’t hesitate to say so. I won’t take it amiss, I promise.”

Her hummed approval was followed by a finger sliding between her buttcheeks where oil now made her slick. He pushed and resistance broke to let him slip in. 

“Ooh,” Sorcha breathed as she titled her hips to let him in deeper. So very tight, how would he ever— A second, oiled finger joined the first, eliciting a moan.

The bed creaked when Zevran moved to sit right behind her. “All right?” he asked.

She nodded, forehead leaning against Alistair’s. _Relax, relax, relax_ , she told herself over and over as the fingers withdrew and Zevran’s length took their place. If she’d thought Alistair had stretched her, it was nothing compared to the feeling of Zevran entering between her buttcheeks. Even with all the oil and his careful movements, it was almost too much. Yet she needed him, needed them both, to fill her and drive away the darkness that followed her everywhere she went.

After a few deep breaths, she began rocking back and forth, letting Zevran slip out a little before having him go deeper. All the while, Alistair was muttering how tight she was, how good she felt. 

Zevran was the first to start thrusting. Though his motions were controlled, his fingers digging into her hips would leave bruises for sure. Before long, Alistair began thrusting up, into her. The rhythm faltered at first as she tried to move together with both at once and failed to follow either. None of them was willing to give up and soon, they found a steady rhythm. She moaned when he reached that one spot again and again.

Guided by her pleas for more, they sped up, pounding her until nothing else existed. Oil and sweat and her wetness mingled, moans and groans and the creaking of the bed filling the room. She didn’t know where she ended and the others began, she just knew they were driving her to her climax as flesh slapped against flesh.

Harder and deeper, they lost themselves in her. They were all she wanted and more. Heat flushed through her then exploded as she finally came. They kept going, kept thrusting, her body arching as if to beg for more. A wail came from her own throat as she shuddered between them.

Alistair tensed first, clasping her close to his chest as he came inside her, soon followed by Zevran who pushed hard enough to make her gasp before he collapsed on her. 

Leaving a trail of kisses on the back of her neck, he pulled away and, breathing heavily, Sorcha steadied herself on her arm. The last waves of pleasure made her tremble as she looked down at the one she thought she’d driven away. But he’d stayed. Alistair cupped her jaw, running his calloused thumb over the soft skin of her cheek like. Like she was crying.

She _was_ crying.

She was crying all the tears unshed and his eyes shone with concern and care and gentleness like she’d never hurt him. As if those terrible words had never left her lips, had never lashed out at him. This wasn’t right. He should be angry with her, he should never want to see her again. How could he still look at her like that?

“I’m so sorry,” was all she managed to bring out before she collapsed on his chest, sobs wracking her body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took a bit longer to write this chapter than I had planned, but here it is! Hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I liked writing (and, ehm, _thinking_ about) it. Though I'm a little bit sorry for all the hurt, trust me, it hurt me too to write.


	4. Cleansed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Zevran leaves, Sorcha and Alistair are left alone together.

She felt Alistair lifting her like she was a helpless babe and lowering her in a tub filled with warm water. Tears squeezed between her shut eyelids, falling in the water. She drew her knees to her chest, but Alistair’s hand closing around her shoulder kept her from curling in on herself. Sitting behind her, he let water from his cupped hands flow over her back, her shoulders, her chest. Again and again, all the while whispering soothing words.

“I’m here.” Water warming her exposed neck. “You’re safe.” Trickling down her spine. “It’ll be all right.” Dripping down her arm. Her arm that ended too soon. That was gone. Wouldn’t come back. It wasn’t going to be all right, it could never again be all right.

Gasped breaths between sobs. Like she was drowning. Maybe she was. Maybe all the pain she’d held back these past months would finally overwhelm her. And maybe she wouldn’t have the strength to get back up this time. 

“Sorcha?” His hands lingered on her arms, not pulling her tighter against him, but not letting her go either.

She was tired. So damn tired. Of fighting to keep the pain from hurting her. Of running away from the memories that haunted her. Of pretending to be fine when she wasn’t.

“I’m not.” She gasped for air, but there wasn’t enough. “I’m not. All right.” 

Silence met her words, then his arms wrapped around her waist. “I know.”

“The Council. He. He. He.” A strangled sob broke her sentence. She hit the water with her balled hand. By Mythal! She _wanted_ to talk, so why didn’t her voice listen? Why did everything have to be so hard?

“Shh, easy,” Alistair hummed. “You don’t have to tell me. Don’t have to tell anyone. Though if you want to, we could do the Fereldan thing and get a mabari to talk to. Used to do that a lot. Or you could pretend I’m a mabari.”

A squeaky sound that wasn’t quite a chuckle, but not a sob either came from her throat, only to turn into a rolling giggle as she imagined mabari-Alistair. His hair was already very pettable. Air filled her lungs and she sat up a little straighter. He had a way of making her smile and somehow, when she was with him, those darkest thoughts that haunted her seemed to withdraw. Almost like the warmth of his presence shielded her. 

She leaned back, the slow rise and fall of his chest against her back, his breath tickling her neck. The rippling surface of the water went still, their knees sticking out like little islands between reflections of flickering light. The low crackling of the fire filled the room together with the sound of their steady breathing. She could remain silent and hope that this evening would never end. Hoping for such a thing would be foolish, though, and when this dawn came, Alistair would go back to Denerim, leaving her alone. Nothing would have changed; she’d be as hurt as before and he’d be left wondering why she’d pushed him away. Little she could do about the first part, but as for the latter, she could at least give him answers. 

Waves formed around her as she broke free of Alistair’s arms and rose just enough to turn around to face him. She settled on the other side of the tub. The thought of sitting in another man’s embrace while telling about the love she had lost seemed wrong.

Eyes on her fingers as they trailed through the water, she began talking. About how lost she’d been, without her clan and only shems around her, how scared by the glowing mark—a twitch in her stump, like nails digging into flesh—how the shems had looked at her with fear and anger. But she also told him about the bald elf, one of her own kind even if his face was unmarked, who had studied the mark, had taken away the pain for a while. Whose quiet voice and numerous stories had drawn her in, until one day, her eyes met his and they’d stayed locked. Not a word had been spoken, yet everything had changed. 

Her voice faltered when she told about their meetings in the Fade, the ghost of a kiss lingering on her lips. Tears rolled down her cheeks, but she continued. Each word stabbed her again, leaving her heart pierced and bleeding as she’d feared. Her lips trembled, her shoulders shook and inside, a voice was screaming at her to stop, but she balled her hand into a fist and forced every word, every drop of tainted blood out of her wounded heart. 

The loss of her clan, the loss of her vallaslin, and that final loss she should have seen coming. During those years after Corypheus’ defeat, there had been a part of her that hoped for Solas to return. Dreams too vivid to be the result of her own mind had kept her tied to him with each day the mark spread.

Words became sentences, became rivers that ran their own course until they reached the inevitable end: that last meeting at the Exalted Council. She told it all. 

_“Ar lath ma, vhenan.”_ An echo kept locked away in the back of her mind. Whether she’d kept it there out of fear of the pain it would bring, or of losing it, she didn’t know. Now, she whispered it out loud into the emptiness around her. No answer came.

Her head slumped down like it was too heavy for her to carry any longer and her fist loosened. Tiredness spread through her, languid fingers spreading from her chest to her limbs until it took all her effort to keep her eyelids from falling shut. 

Keeper Deshanna had always said bleeding was necessary to keep a wound from festering later on. Keeper Deshanna was dead. But that didn’t mean Sorcha should just forget all the lessons she’d learned from her. A festering wound, was that what she’d kept inside her all that time?

* * *

His mind was running in circles, trying to find something to say. Anything would be fine, really. Anything that would make that dead look in her eyes go away. Anything, anything, anything. 

“Do you want to wash yourself? I mean.” He turned red, he could feel it. Oh Maker, anything was _not_ good. “There’s soap here.” His teeth clacked together when he shut his mouth. _Great, Alistair, just great. She tells you her entire heartbreaking story and you tell her she’s smelly._

Her brow knitted together in confusion. He’d stunned her into silence. Useful skill, if she’d been, say, a darkspawn attacking him or perhaps an annoying teyrn who wouldn’t shut up. Quite obviously, she was neither. Now, there must be a way to fix this. 

“I think I would like that,” she said, though she showed no sign of getting up to get the soap. The circles underneath her eyes were dark against her awfully pale skin. He remembered how that soft that skin had felt against his, but he also remembered how fragile she’d been in his arms. Like she wasn’t there, not really. He resisted the urge to reach out and touch her; nothing about her suggested she wanted his touch. Still, he could hardly let her sit here like this.

“Do you want me to help?” he asked. 

She nodded. 

He got the soap and a sponge from the dressing table, looking at Sorcha’s reflection in the mirror. Was it him or was her stare a little less empty than before? That was good. 

Something sharp dug into his foot when he stepped back into the tub, making him pull back. Reaching down, he found the no longer glowing fire rune and placed it on the table. Zevran could pretend all he wanted, Alistair knew, he just _knew_ his friend had set this up together with Leliana. The meeting, the private room, and, finally, Zevran’s sneaky escape after— After Sorcha had started crying. Truth be told, he didn’t care anymore. If he ever had.

Sorcha took his outstretched hand, water flowing down her body as she rose. Careful not to stare, he worked up a thick lather on the sponge. She watched his every move and, at his questioning look, extended her arm. 

Gently, he took her hand, moving the sponge between each finger before moving up her arm. Water formed droplets where oil lingered on her skin. It was the second time tonight he rubbed circles on her body, but it was nothing like the first. Watching her face for any sign of discomfort, he moved the sponge down her other arm. The one that ended half-way. Anger bloomed inside as he remembered what she’d told him. How could that elf, that Solas, have hurt her like this? And not just once, but twice. Or even more, considering all Sorcha had lost. Did he not think about the consequences of his actions?

“Alistair?” 

His head shot up at her question. “He doesn’t deserve you,” he blurted out, regretting the words as soon as they left his mouth. Lines appeared on her forehead and the look in her eyes turned inwards once more. 

“Doesn’t change anything.” 

He winced at her curt reply. She was right, though, when did feelings ever listen to reason? 

Before he could try to find an answer, she said, “Sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to lash out like that. Not again. Not at you.” Her words hung heavy between them, his heart beating fast in the silence. Her eyes were red-rimmed from crying and her lips had been quivering less than a bell ago. Her heart was raw and hurt. 

He took a step back. “You don’t have to apologise,” he said, gesturing at her to turn around. “I have this habit of talking when I should’ve stayed silent. Did you know that’s how I spoiled an ambush once? We were in the Deep Roads, could feel the darkspawn coming, and Anna-Lise came up with this brilliant plan to surprise them. It was so brilliant I forgot my part and—” He smiled at recalling the memories. Huh, he’d never have guessed he’d think back on that place fondly. Though he supposed it had been cosy in a way: the atmospheric light of flowing lava, together with the toasty heat coming from those streams and, not to forget, the knowledge he was surrounded by darkspawn, never alone. Comforting, really.

He continued spreading soap on her body as he talked, taking in every curve and every line. He’d touched her before, but never like this. Intimate, but not like the times they’d been _together_. Seeing not just how pretty she was, but also the scars and wounds she’d tried to hide. They made her no less beautiful.

“Now, does your hair need washing?” 

As soon as he asked, her head snapped up. “No.” She inhaled sharply, let the air go out through her mouth. “No, thank you. I’ll do that myself.”

He nodded. Step by step and her short cut hair had been a step too far. “Then I’ll put some clean linen on the bed. I mean. That is.” He had not thought this through. Of course he hadn’t, this had all been Zevran’s doing. And naturally, his assassin friend would forget about matters like appropriate bed arrangements.

Sorcha was looking at him with the beginning of a smile playing around her lips. “Sounds good. I’d say the bed is more than large enough for two people to share.”

* * *

Her short locks tickled her neck as she slipped between the sheets. With the candles extinguished and the fire reduced to a heap of glowing ashes, darkness now filled the room. Together with darkness, quiet settled around them. A quiet that swallowed their breaths, making it easy to pretend she was alone in the room. No voice to reassure her she wasn’t. No touch of Alistair’s body against hers to stop the cold inside her from spreading. 

Darkness and quiet pulled the breath from her lungs. Alone.

“Alistair?” Her cry for help was a mere whimper. 

“Yes?”

“I was wondering.” She stopped, rolling to her side to face him. Her eyes pierced the darkness, his silhouette next to her taking shape. “I was hoping your offer was still open. Your offer of friendship, I mean. I could really use a friend right now.”

The sheets shifted a fraction, his breath becoming shallower. She didn’t need to see him to know he’d tensed up at her question. She should’ve known he wouldn’t forgive her this easily. She’d asked too much.

“It is. Still open. I mean,” he cleared his throat, “I’d very much like to be your friend.”

She let out a sigh. “Thank you.” With that, she curled up, still not touching Alistair, though she pretended she could feel his warmth through the blanket. Not alone, not anymore.


	5. Winter's Long Reach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a long, long winter, summer finally comes to Thedas.

A cracker with some cheese—or, more accurately, cheese and a bit of cracker—crunched between Alistair’s teeth as he listened to Fergus talk. Not about politics, not about taxes, no, they’d left those things behind the moment they’d entered Alistair’s private quarters.

“I would have brought him to visit, but Catriona said it would be irresponsible.” Fergus raised his hands in a helpless gesture.

Alistair chuckled. “Let me guess, she also said that if I wanted to see my godchild, I should come over to visit you myself?”

Fergus grinned. “More or less. She might have muttered something about how being a king doesn’t make someone better than others.”

“She’s right about that. I should have visited Highever months ago, but things have been. You know.” He shrugged, feeling the tension in his shoulders that never seemed to go away these days. “Busy.”

“I understand, we both do. It’s why I’m here, after all. No one is expecting you to do everything by yourself.” 

Before Alistair could express his gratitude to his friend, a knock sounded, immediately followed by the door opening. Torchlight created a halo of light around dark hair sticking out at odd angles.

Slightly out of breath, Sorcha burst out, “Alistair, I have this question.” Her eyes darted from him to Fergus, who had turned around to see who the intruder was. “Oh. Didn’t know you had a guest. Sorry.” She took a step back and made to leave.

“Wait,” Alistair said. “Why don’t you join us? We have cheese and,” he glanced at the wine, dismissed it, then added, “pastries.” Sure, dinner had been less than two bells ago, but it was always time for pastries and cheese, right? 

She hesitated a moment, then closed the door behind her before coming over. From this close, a red blush tinted her cheeks and he noticed the coat she was still wearing. They were well into Cloudreach, but it seemed like summer hadn’t quite received the message. After a week of rain and greyness, the shining sun this morning had been a welcome sight. Until he’d gone outside to go through some sword drills and the cold air had cut his lungs. As long as the weather was good at Summer Day, he wouldn’t complain though. Sorcha would love the festivities organised throughout Denerim, he was sure of that.

“Fergus, this is Sorcha. She’s my guest.” That would have to do as an explanation. She didn’t like to be introduced as the former head of the Inquisition, though that title had proven useful as a reason for her stay at the Palace. Didn’t stop the rumours, of course, but then, what would?

Fergus quirked an eyebrow, recognition of the name crossing his face. To his merit, he only said, “Pleased to meet you, Sorcha.”

“Likewise.” She took a custard-filled pastry and sat down on one of the sofas. After kicking off her boots, she pulled her legs underneath her. “You’re the teyrn of Highever, are you not? Alistair speaks highly of you.” She made it sound like a threat rather than a compliment. He should’ve seen that coming, she’d been wary of all nobles since her arrival. Couldn’t blame her, considering the way some of them treated elves. 

“He also told me about you, though he didn’t mention you were his guest.” Fergus turned to look at Alistair, who tried to recall what exactly he had told his friend. That time when he’d told about her visit during First Day, had he perhaps been a little too excited? He had never said too much. Or had he?

“You had a question?” Alistair quickly asked. Very subtle of him, if he might say so himself. If he’d learned anything during his time as a king, it was that distraction was the best way to avoid difficult topics. 

Sorcha sat up taller. “I did. I was walking through the city today and visited the Alienage and was surprised to find the little shops they had. Sure, a lot of them only sell scraps, but I found one that sold something similar to Dalish hearth cakes and they were delicious. This made me wonder, why don’t you allow them to set up stands in the regular market place? They could make a lot more money over there.”

Fergus answered, “Pardon me, but I doubt it will be that easy.”

Sorcha snorted. “And that’s just a lazy excuse for not doing anything. Is change ever easy?” She narrowed her eyes, watching Fergus like a cat watching a mouse. Right, this was the reason he hadn’t introduced them to each other yet. Keeping order in the Landsmeet was quite enough of a challenge, he didn’t exactly need his two closest friends at each other’s throats.

“I will—” he started, but Fergus interrupted,

“You’re right. Change requires daring people. However, we should not forget to remain cautious, lest the change hurts more people than it helps. These things cannot be changed overnight.”

When Sorcha leaned back, seemingly to let the topic rest, Alistair let his inheld breath escape. Slicing off some cheese, he said, “Daring people, huh? Care to tell about the time Bryce decided the walls in your living room needed redecorating? I’d say he was quite daring indeed.” Alistair turned to Sorcha. “Bryce is the eldest son of Fergus and Catriona.”

A broad smile softened Fergus’ face at the mention of Bryce and he started telling. Soon, they were all laughing about the antics of his oldest son and after Alistair told some of his childhood adventures, even Sorcha added a few stories.

* * *

Her mouth closed around empty air and she muttered a curse. This couldn’t be that hard, she was sure it was here somewhere. Another bite of air.

“Left, to your left,” Alistair yelled over the noise of the crowd. Laughter and shouts of encouragement blurred together and she could feel the sweat building on her brow underneath the blindfold. Creators, this was ridiculous. Only shems would crowd together like this on such a hot day and only shems would play games with food.

Loud cheers sounded. That must mean the short woman that was her opponent had won. She’d been sure the woman would trip over her layered skirts, had almost felt sorry for accepting the challenge, but apparently, she was the one people needed to feel sorry for. Now, where was that damned piece of cake?

She turned her head to the left, no longer caring how she looked like a fish gasping for air. Something brushed her cheeks and she tilted her head backwards. On her lips now. Her tongue darted out to catch the dangling slice of cake and, finally, her teeth tore it from the string that was attached to a line running between two buildings. Crumbles fell on her face, into her shirt, but she no longer cared. Despite her loss, there was applause for her.

A warm hand closed around her shoulder, followed by Alistair’s voice. “Piece of cake, right?” 

Crumbs of cake shot into her throat and she bent over coughing at the very-much-not-funny-joke. Alistair stopped untying her blindfold to pat her back and she would swear she could feel his grin. When the coughing subsided and with the blindfold gone, she turned to him. “Funny, very funny. Want to demonstrate how easy it is? I believe they are starting another round soon.”

“Is that a challenge?”

In a swift movement, she stole the blindfold from him and wrapped it around his forehead. “I wouldn’t dare, Your Majesty.” The last, she added in a whisper, careful not to let any of the bystanders hear. With his drab clothes and a short, messy beard accentuating his jaw, he looked little like a king, but no reason to blow his cover. 

Alistair’s opponent was a young man who was in that awkward stage between gangly boy and adult. She couldn’t help but feel a pang of glee when he stumbled, giving Alistair the time he needed to find the cake and chow it down in two bites. Blindfolded, he gave the audience a bow, while the boy had given up and was now removing the cake from the string with his hands. He gave half of it to a girl, who looked far more pleased with the gesture than a piece of dried-out cake would warrant. 

After watching two other pairs—two women whose fingers had been entwined before, and a brother with his sister—try, Alistair offered her his arm and they walked to some barrels stacked against one of the buildings to sit down. From here, they had a perfect view over the festivities on the marketplace. Colourful lanterns waved in the gentle breeze, promising an enchanting sight later this evening, and smells and sounds wove together in an ever-changing tapestry. A tapestry that spoke of celebration, happiness, community. There were smiles and kind words for anyone, whether they were a friend or a stranger.

“See, didn’t I tell you it was easy?” Alistair interrupted her thoughts. 

“But that’s because I gave you good instructions,” Sorcha countered.

His eyebrows rose in exaggerated indignation. “I did give you good instructions, you just refused to follow them. Didn’t I tell you to step to your left?” He waited a heartbeat before answering his own question, “Yes. Yes, I did. And did you do it?” He raised a finger to stop her from speaking. “No. No, you didn’t. Not until it was too late.”

She poked him with her elbow but not without giving him a wide grin. “Come on. It looked ridiculous, all right? Not everyone likes to make a fool of themselves.”

He chuckled, then jumped up. “Wait here.” She watched him wind his way through the throng, his hair shining a rather pretty coppery colour in the sunlight. With a smile, she closed her eyes, leaning back against the wall. Early summer had always been her favourite time of the year; the flowers were in full bloom, young halla pattered alongside their mothers and the sun was strong enough to drive away every last trace of winter. A season of hope and new beginnings. This year, the icy fingers of winter had stretched on far longer than usual.

Soft footsteps reached her ears, but she kept her eyes closed until Alistair said, “Surprise.” He was standing in front of her, two ice cream cones in his hands. One of them was already dripping down his hand.

With a grateful smile, she took a cone and gave it a testing lick. Creamy, cold and sweet. As close to perfection as a treat could get. She hummed when Alistair sat down next to her, their thighs and shoulders pressed against each other while the sun warmed them from above. For a moment, they were two random people who had not a thing to worry about, sitting and eating ice cream underneath the clear blue sky. Summer might’ve come late, but it was finally there.

“Thank you,” Sorcha said.

Alistair swallowed the last bite of his cone. “It’s nothing. Why don’t you show me where you got those hearth cakes later on?”

She stopped eating to catch his eye. “I mean, thank you, Alistair. For everything.”

He stayed silent for a heartbeat, or rather, for several of her rapid heartbeats, before he answered, “Of course. It’s what friends do, isn’t it?” A light blush seemed to tint his cheeks—from the heat?—and he cast his gaze down. He gestured towards her hand. “You’re dripping.”

She quickly licked her hand, from where icecream was dripping onto her trousers. He must be right, this was what being friends meant.

* * *

“Maker, it’s midnight already?” Alistair exclaimed as the bell from the Chantry rang through the night, reaching them through open windows. The curtains fluttered in the cool breeze and a half-empty wine bottle stood next to a plate with only crumbs left on it. They must’ve been talking for hours, yet it felt like no time had passed since he’d entered her room.

“Poor you, is it past your bedtime?” Sorcha giggled. The single—though generous—glass of wine had brought a giddy feeling to her chest and a warm blush to her cheeks. No wonder, after months of not having a drop of alcohol. 

He put a hand to his heart, imitating the look of a begging puppy with remarkable accuracy. “Have some pity on me, will you? I’m an old, old man and you’re this enchanting young woman who has enchanted me with her charming ways.”

“Nice try, but I’m a year older than you and you know it. Still, does that mean you’ll stay a little longer?” She cast him a smile that she hoped was seducing. From the way his brows knitted together, it had been anything but. She knew she shouldn’t have mentioned her age. 

“I’m sorry, but I can’t. Have to get up before sunrise if I want to prepare for the meeting later on. Not that I want to, but I’m kind of obligated to, you know.” When she gave no reply, he rose and straightened his shirt. 

An invisible string pulled taut between them as he walked to the door. She wished he wouldn’t leave, she wished he would stay so they could talk the entire night. She wished— Alistair’s hand was already on the doorknob when she ran to him. His eyebrows rose in a puzzled look at her sudden movement.

“Stay,” she said. Many months had passed since the first time she’d uttered that word to this man and her spacious Skyhold quarters overlooking the Frostbacks had changed to make place for a room with tapestries in warm red and green hues hanging from the walls. What hadn’t changed was how the beat of her heart was running, skipping, tripping in her chest. 

Like that other time, he stayed quiet and she reached out to place her hand on his jaw. Back then, she had examined him, thinking he might be able to drive away the cold surrounding her but had she really seen him? 

Light blond hairs hid between darker ones in the stubble on his cheeks and chin, a few red ones caught the torchlight. The light also served to show the shallow lines that creased his brow and forehead, lines that would be joined by ones around his eyes whenever he laughed and that had been often tonight. His lips were chapped after riding in the burning summer sun for several days on his way back from a visit to Gwaren, a thin line of dried blood showing where the sensitive skin of his lower lip had split open. His eyes… Green mingled with brown to form the kindest eyes she’d ever seen, the eyes of a man she would trust with her life.

With slow, deliberate movements, he took her hand and pressed a kiss on it. The cracked skin of his lips sent a shiver through her.

“I can’t.” 

Several heartbeats passed before the words made any sense to her. “You can’t?”

His mouth twitched, but his eyes never left hers when he spoke again, “I can’t do this any longer. I can’t stay if it means nothing more than a night of pleasure. Enjoyment. Whatever you want to call it.” He swallowed, but continued in a firm tone, “I need more.”

Where her heart had been beating too fast before, it now halted. When it started again, it laboured as if her blood had thickened in her veins and each beat struggled to let it flow.

Alistair searched her face, then said, gentler than she’d ever heard him speak, “I love you, Sorcha.”

_No!_ She shrunk back as if burned. It was too much. She couldn’t do this, she couldn’t let their newfound friendship turn into more, she couldn’t risk losing that too. Couldn’t risk losing him. As if afraid that the smallest movement would shatter her life—again—she froze in place. But that wasn’t enough, not for him. Her throat tightened at seeing the hurt on his face, but she couldn’t make her mouth move to give him what he was asking for.

“You don’t have to respond right now, just—” He shook his head as he didn’t know what to say any more than she did. “Just know you can stay as long as you want. I’ll be here. Well, not here exactly, but... around. I,” he faltered, his gaze turned to the floor. “I guess I should go now. Yes. Time to go.” He nodded to himself as he turned the doorknob and opened the door. 

Sorcha watched as he walked down the long corridor, his shoulders hunched like they hadn’t been in a long time. He didn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone celebrating, I hope you have a happy Easter/Passover/... despite everything that is going on <3


	6. New Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorcha decides it's time for her to go and live her life. She just has to find out what that new life looks like first.

She ran and ran and ran. The circles of light cast by Denerim’s street lanterns made place for shifting shadows on the moonlit ground. The occasional farmstead disappeared as she went deeper into the Southern Hills until there were only trees around her. She watched the sunrise from the top of a hill, sitting in front of the small fire she’d made to heat water for her tea. Next to her, on her spread-out cloak, lay the few belongings she’d taken with her last night when she’d run away from the palace and from—

“From Alistair,” Sorcha whispered, forcing herself to speak his name. He had been kind to her when she’d needed it, but she had always known the moment would come when she would have to leave. That’s what she tried to tell herself, but it didn’t stop the guilt nagging at her as she remembered the brief letter—if a few words could be called that—she’d left behind. He deserved more. He deserved so, so much more. But she hadn’t been able to give him more.

She hissed a curse when she burned her hand while taking the kettle from the make-shift hanger. It would take some time getting used being out on the field again. On the field. She grimaced, when had she started calling it that? It must be something she’d picked up from Cassandra during the numerous missions they’d been on. She poured boiling water on top of the dried herbs in her mug before leaning back against a tree to watch the sunrise. There was no sound of her companions packing up, no friendly banter to make her smile. No clanmates waiting for her to join them for the hunt or children running around, shirking their chores. With a huff, she turned to her cloak to examine her belongings. 

A lifetime of travelling with her clan meant she was used to packing swiftly and she knew the essentials. A knife, a spoon, the kettle that would do for a single person, her waterskin, a spare set of clothes and a bedroll. Needles and thread and other scraps had been put in a pouch at her belt, next to her dagger. Dried meat and fruit, together with flatbreads she’d taken from the Palace’s kitchen would provide her with enough food for a couple of days. She could forage as she travelled and set traps to catch small wild during the night. The question of how to skin and prepare her prey with one hand, she ignored for now. 

Day after day passed and she would have forgotten about the date if it hadn’t been for the journal she kept in her bag. A line each day—a habit she'd picked up during her time as Inquisitor—about the sunlight filtering through the canopy above, or how the mossy ground gave a spring to her step as she travelled deeper into the Brecilian Forest. At night, she slept a dreamless sleep under the tapestry of stars. Eat, drink, travel and sleep, an easy rhythm that she settled into like she had never left her old life.

After some two weeks, she found the trails of carts together with halla hoofprints on the mossy ground.

* * *

Roses bloomed in the garden outside Alistair’s office, shades of red and pink in the summer sun. Anna-Lise would’ve loved them. Maybe Sorcha would as well, he’d never asked her what her favourite type of flower was. And now it was too late.

His thumb ran over the slip of paper he’d read a thousand times.

_It’s time for me to leave. I’ll never forget you or what you did for me. Thank you._

He read them again, trying to find some hidden meaning in those words, some hint of where she had gone in her sharp handwriting. 

“Ah, but I could have killed you ten times over by now.” Alistair didn’t even turn around at the voice and Zevran joined him at the window. “My friend, with your lack of protection, I can’t help but think you have a wish to die.”

Alistair snorted at that. “Like they would let me. ‘No, that will not fit your schedule of today. You’ll first have to sign these papers and kiss that arse and smile but please don’t talk at that meeting.’”

“It seems you Fereldans have the right idea after all. Imagine the chaos it would cause if rulers had the audacity to just die whenever they wanted.” Zevran clacked his tongue. “Now, what is this?” Before Alistair could protest, Zevran was holding the paper in his hand, reading the words out loud.

He sighed, then gestured for Zevran to take a seat. “She’s gone.” He seemed to have that effect on women, making them run away after confessing his love. A wry smile formed on his lips. There was nothing funny about this at all, but laughing was easier than to mull over each word, each moment they’d spent together. 

Instead of taking one of the chairs, Zevran sat down at the edge of Alistair’s desk. Right on top of a letter from a bann complaining about the sunny weather that had kept for the last month. Like the King could do something about that. And even if he could, someone would be yelling at him that the crops were drowning with all that rain. Likely that exact same bann.

“I’m sorry, my friend. Truly.” Zevran handed him back the slip of paper. “But you shouldn’t give up hope, not quite yet. She said she would never forget you, did she not?”

“So she won’t forget about that time I’d overlooked a spot when shaving in the morning and walked around with a single patch of hair on my cheek the entire day. Helpful. Very helpful, Zevran.”

Zevran laughed at that, the lighthearted kind of laughter that suggested he had not a care in the world. How he managed to keep that attitude with at least half of the Antivan Crows and probably a dozen others after him, Alistair would never know. “Let us hope she remembers that patch of hair fondly, then, shall we?”

Alistair rolled his eyes, but couldn’t keep from chuckling. Maybe he could keep hope a little longer, even if there had been nothing to suggest she’d come back. He tried no to think about how much worse he would feel when he discovered she was truly gone after all. Gone like Anna-Lise was gone. 

The memory of that time he’d gone hunting together with her stopped his mind from going down the path that would only lead to self-pity. Sorcha’s laughter rang in the air, her cheeks rosy from the fresh air as locks of hair fluttered in the wind. How could he ask her to turn her back to that? She’d never be happy locked up in the Palace and he of all people should understand that. He hoped she’d find her happiness wherever she was. She deserved that much.

* * *

There was laughing and eating and drinking and, at the centre of it all, was a girl—a young woman now—with the lines of her vallaslin blending in with her dark skin. She smiled as different members of the clan came to admire her ornate bow, hugged her friends and family when they gave her small gifts and her hand touched that of a young man who beamed with pride for her. A moment of pure happiness.

Sorcha leaned back between the bushes, taking a handful of berries from the pouch at her belt. Over there, they would have hearth cakes and dandelion wine. The celebrations for the young woman would go on deep into the night. Getting her vallaslin would be one of the most special occasions in her life, after all. Sorcha hoped the girl would get to make many more bows, harnasses for the halla and other tools for the clan. Silently, she spoke a blessing for the girl and left a splash of water together with some berries on the ground as an offering.

Soon, one of the clan’s elders sat down at the fire and children and adults alike gathered around him. In hushed tones, he started the story about how June taught the People to bend the branches of trees to create their bows. He spoke in softly, but Sorcha didn’t need to hear his voice; this was one story she knew by heart.

Years ago, she’d been sitting there, surrounded by everyone she thought she would ever need. She had been the one holding a slender bow carved with spirals. The path before her had seemed simple: she’d continue helping Yeryan, though she would no longer be a mere apprentice to their clan’s craftsman. Eventually, she’d take over from him, find a partner, have children. But then, one of her clanmates had bonded with a craftsman from another clan at an Arlathan and several of their own hunters left because of a conflict between them and Keeper Deshanna. Without complaining, she’d given up her place at Yeryan’s side to join the hunters.

Several years later, she’d been asked to spy on a gathering of the shems and again, she’d done as asked without complaining. After a whirlwind of events, she’d been placed at the head of an organisation whose gods she didn’t even believe in. She _had_ complained that time. No one had listened, so she’d done what needed to be done.

And now, now she was here, sitting alone in a bush, watching a Dalish clan—her own people—from afar. She’d been trailing them for a little over a fortnight now, staying out of sight as she observed them in the evening. She told herself she wanted to make sure she could carry her own weight even with just one arm. There might also be a part of her that feared their reaction to her naked face, but she’d seen another elf among them with greying hair and without vallaslin. If they accepted city elves to join them, they should accept her as well. 

Her mind went still as the wind carried the storyteller’s voice to her. 

“And that was when June told of ancestors how to work with the grain of the wood. Cut like this, the grain would bend and flex without breaking. Cut like that, it would be sturdy. ‘Work with the wood, do not struggle against it,’ June spoke to the People.” The rustle of the trees drowned out the remainder of the story, leaving Sorcha to contemplate on that one passage.

She’d been following the grain of her life or so she thought. Not always down the easy path, but going where she was needed. But was that enough? Why did she still hesitate to join those people? What if she was trying to fit herself into a life that no longer fit her, like trying to make a bow with wood that had been cut perpendicular to the grain? Such a bow would snap the moment she tried to use it.

Quietly, she made her way back to where she had left her belongings. The entry in her journal that night read: _30 Solis, 9:45 Dragon. Watched a woman get her vallaslin. The start of a new beginning._

Lying in her bedroll, surrounded by the ever-present noises of the forest, she admitted to herself what she’d been trying to push aside all this time. Everything she’d been through had changed her, had shaped her until she no longer fit the rigid mould that was life in a Dalish clan. She lay in silence for several heartbeats, waiting for that feared feeling of desperate loneliness to overwhelm her. It didn’t come. Instead, she saw gentle hazel eyes in her mind’s eye and heard his voice,

“I’ll be here.”


	7. When One is No Longer Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorcha returns and... saying anything more would be spoilers ;)

Humming to himself, Alistair arranged and rearranged the figurines standing in his bookcase. Some people might argue a bookcase was for books, but those people showed a disturbing lack of imagination. Sure, he had a couple of books—some on the history of Ferelden, a few collections by Philliam, a Bard!—but the various runestones and statuettes were no less deserving of their place. 

His hand hovered over the books, then picked _Small Legends: Of Nugs and Foxes_. Some light reading after a meeting that had lasted the entire day. Had been a good meeting, though, Arl Wulff and Bann Vigard had made amends. At long last. Maker, how could two men be so stubborn? Anyway, things were all sunshine again and Alistair liked to think he’d played some part in that.

“Alistair,” the wind whispered. That wasn’t quite right, was it? Was the wind supposed to whisper? With a shrug, Alistair pushed the demon statuette against the books to keep them standing upright. Good demon. He wished all demons would be like this one: tiny and, ehm, statuette-like. Sorcha would agree, she’d seen more than enough real demons for a lifetime.

The wind coughed. Wait, what? 

He spun around to find— “Sorcha?” Was this a demon? Had he conjured it by thinking of her? No, that couldn’t be? That wasn’t how it worked. Right?

She stared at him like he would disappear the moment she blinked. Pretty much how he felt about her presence as well. “I— I came back?”

“And here I thought I’d just summoned a demon.” _Stupid, Alistair, stupid._ That was one way to make someone feel unwelcome.

Despite his poorly made joke, the corners of her mouth quirked up in what was almost a smile. “I certainly hope you didn’t. But if you— If I—” She clenched her jaw. “I understand it if you would rather have me leave.”

“No!” Alistair ran his hand through his hair. Maker, no, he didn’t want her to leave. Not when he’d spent all this time hoping she’d come back, that she wouldn’t leave him alone. Sure, her arrival was unexpected, but that was no reason for her to leave right away. Unless she wanted to. She didn’t want to, did she? 

He forced himself to look at her when he asked “Will you stay?”

“I would like to, but…” her voice trailed off and she looked away. How he ached to hold her. 

He walked over to where she was standing next to the opened window, the curtain fluttering in the wind. Her eyes were large and beautiful and filled with tears when she looked up at him. He reached out to brush a lock of hair aside, he couldn’t help himself, then clasped his hands behind his back and took a step back before he could do anything else. He had to know why she was here. “But?”

Sorcha sighed. “I’m sorry. Sorry for running away, sorry for leaving you with nothing more than a note. I don’t want to leave again. If you would have me, that is. I mean,” she took a deep breath, “I want to be with you.”

He was dreaming, wasn’t he? She’d visited him often in his dreams, to tell him she wanted him, that they would run away together. The smell of lavender and those tall grasses growing around the borders of the fields filled his nose. The smell of sultry summer nights that never ended. The smell of her.

His hand cupped her cheek and then his mouth brushed against her soft lips.

* * *

Sorcha’s heart skipped a beat and she stumbled a step back, causing Alistair to look at her in alarm.

“Was that— Are you—” He reached his hand towards her, only to immediately let it fall. 

She took a breath. And another. And another. She had to say it, to tell him. Creators, it were three words, how hard could it be? She opened her mouth, but instead of words, a pitiful squeak came out. She would have to do better than that.

“Alistair.” All right, she could say his name, that was a start. She squeezed her eyes shut, then blurted out, “I love you.”

Silence. Was that good? The air shifted, a floorboard creaked when he stepped closer. His breath was hot against her ear when he whispered, “And I love you too.”

A shiver ran down her spine as she stood with her eyes closed still. Every muscle in her body was taut, her breathing shallow. He didn’t touch her, yet the air between them thrummed with tension, making her skin tingle. 

His finger traced her ear softly, like the ghost of a touch and her lips parted in a silent moan. 

“Sorcha.” Again, his breath hot on her skin, but this time his voice was husky. His words were followed by kisses going from the tip of her ear down to her jaw. 

Heat pooled between her legs, the thrum of the air now vibrating through her entire body. Her knees nearly buckled when he kissed her neck and her hand shot out to hold on to Alistair. He was warm and strong and he was _there_. She’d told him she loved him and he hadn’t left. His arms closed around her to press her against him and she finally dared look at him.

A smile passed between them, then their lips met once more. This time, she kissed him back and her lips parted without hesitation. Her tongue touched his, playing, teasing, deepening their kiss. She ran her hand over broad shoulders to the nape of his neck, where his hair bristled against her fingers.

His knee pressed between her legs and she pressed as much of herself against him as she could. She wanted him. All of him. She wanted him between her thighs, filling her, pushing her closer and closer to that sweet relief. Her hips bucked against him and her moan was swallowed by his mouth. Not breaking their kiss, he lifted her and, with her legs wrapped around his waist, carried her to his bed.

She wished she could say their clothes were suddenly gone, not a barrier left between their bodies, but alas, that wasn’t what happened. Alistair fumbled with the buttons of her shirt and the fabric tore at his sharp tug.

“Oops.” He grinned sheepishly as he sat upright.

Sorcha pulled away from him. “Let me do that while you get rid of that damned belt of yours.” 

“Just the belt?” He joined her to stand at the foot of the bed, his shirt falling open. _She_ had managed to succeed in undoing those buttons without tearing his precious, kingly shirt. A trail of darker hairs led from his bellybutton down, teasing her for what lay beyond. Beyond that stupidly stubborn belt of his.

She raised an eyebrow and bit her lip, holding his gaze. “For now.” 

His eyes widened slightly as he watched her undo the buttons of her shirt one by one before letting it slip down one shoulder, down the other. It dropped to the floor to join her pants, leaving her in her sleeveless undershirt and panties. The shirt’s loose fabric concealed her curves, nothing like the fancy lace he’d seen her wear at several other occasions, yet he seemed as entranced by her in these old and comfy clothes as he’d been those other times. She slipped the undershirt over her head with a grimace—hard to do that in a sexy way with one hand—then teased her panties down. Alistair’s mouth had opened just the tiniest bit and he swallowed when the last piece of fabric reached the floor. 

Naked, she was standing before him all naked. She drew shallow breaths, as if a single motion might make an end to this all. The tension that came with unfulfilled lust hung between them.

“Alistair, I want you.”

The tension shattered when he leapt at her, knocking her down onto the bed. His weight pushed down on her as he kissed her eagerly. She wrapped her legs around him, grinding into him, feeling his hard length through the clothes he was still wearing. This time, there was no fumbling as he unclothed and then his skin touched hers. 

Taking advantage of how he was propped up on his elbows, she threw him on his back and sat down on top of him. Finally, she would finally feel him inside her again, stretching her and—

She yelped when he flung her around, reversing their positions once more. 

This time, his hands held her shoulders against the mattress and his hips made slow, leisurely movements between her thighs, making it hard to think of anything but the throbbing want down there.

“We’re. Going. To. Do. This. Right.” He placed kisses on her neck and ears between each word. “I want to taste you, feel you trembling, hear you moan my name when I make you come. I want to make love to you.”

Her approving hum turned into a gasp when his lips grasped a nipple, sending shocks straight down her spine, to that spot between her legs. He rained kisses all over her body, his fingers like fluttering caresses. She wriggled this way then that, hoping for more than the light touches, but he ignored her moaned pleas for more. Her shoulders, the insides of her wrists, each finger, her breasts, her stomach, the curve of her hip, every part of her burned with the need for more.

After what felt like endless, delicious torture, he sat down between her legs. His calloused hands felt rough and gentle against the sensitive skin between her thighs as he parted them wide. His thumbs ran over her folds, spreading them.

“You’re wet,” he said, his voice strained. 

“Yes,” she breathed. She knew that already. She also knew she was _this_ close to coming undone. A single well-placed touch, a lick of his tongue. 

Her fingers curled into the sheets when he ran his tongue between her folds, pulling back each time he reached her clit. Again and again. Eventually, he dipped deeper, groaning as he lapped up her wetness. And then he moved up and circled and she unravelled.

Tracing slow patterns, he held her through her orgasm, coaxing her to reach one more crest, to call his name one more time.

When the pulses ebbed away, she gave him a lazy smile and he came up from between her legs. Her lust was on his lips. She should feel satisfied, relaxed, but she didn’t. His hard length that pressed hot against her skin reminded her of what she missed. Without anymore teasing, he placed himself against her opening. He trembled as he pushed inside ever so slowly. His self-control was fraying. She didn’t mind, she wished he would get rid of that self-control and have her. With every scrap of discipline, she held still, waiting for the right moment.

When he was deep inside her, he leaned his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling. 

“Take me,” she whispered against his lips.

His body tensed and he thrust even deeper as if in a reflex. She bit his shoulder to keep from crying out. He thrust again. And again, pounding her faster and harder and faster and harder. Her hips moved to meet him. He felt good, so good.

Her climax took her as fast as it had before, heat rushing through her, but this time there were no careful caresses to guide her through, only his frantic thrusts. She didn’t care. Her moans sounded loud to her own ears and she couldn’t stop her body from arching into him. After a few more thrusts, he called her name before collapsing on top of her.

Ragged breaths calmed down, sweaty skin clinging to sweaty skin as their hearts beat together.

When Sorcha slipped back into bed after cleaning herself, she propped herself up on one elbow. “So this is what you call ‘making love’?”

Alistair chuckled, putting his arm around her waist. When she curled up against his chest, he placed a kiss on the top of her head. “Good point. I think we should try again, see if we can get it right this time. What do you say?”

She traced a circle around his nipple, a smile playing on her lips. “I couldn't agree more.”

* * *

Alistair blinked against the sunlight shining through the split in the curtains. Outside, birds were chirping, admonishing him for being lazy. Today they could chirp all they wanted, he wasn’t listening. Today, he’d be lazy and stay in bed and ignore his duties, because today, Sorcha was with him. A hollow rumble came from his stomach. All right, maybe he’d go out of bed for breakfast. Or they could have breakfast in bed. A difficult dilemma, but lucky for him, Sorcha was there to help.

He turned around to wake her, only to find her spot empty. Was she gone? He’d swear his heart stopped. Then he saw her standing before the dresser, brushing the irregular strands of hair falling around her face. The longest locks reached the top of her undershirt that she’d put back on. As if to catch up for the lapse before, his heart started thrumming in his chest, blood flowing to certain parts as he noticed the hint of her breasts underneath the loose-fitting fabric. Further down, the curve of her behind and just below, the shirt ended, leaving her shapely legs in full view. Very shapely legs that had wrapped around him the previous night. If he had things his way, they would wrap around him several more times today. That brought him to the question…

“My love, what are you doing?” 

Sorcha turned to him, a warm smile on her lips. Very beautiful lips that had done very delicious things to him. _Concentrate, Alistair._ He wasn’t a teenager anymore, he should be capable of having thoughts other than _that_. Not that anything was wrong with _that_ , obviously. In fact, it was pretty amazing. Probably why he found it so hard to think of anything else. Except food. Food was important and perhaps he still had some biscuits somewhere. Oh, he really was behaving like a teenager, wasn’t he—thinking of nothing but beautiful women and food. Too late, he realised Sorcha had been talking.

“Sorry, what did you say?”

On her hands and knees, Sorcha moved towards him on the bed. The neckline of her shirt was wide enough to show her breasts. Oh, Maker. 

“Distracted?” she asked, her finger tracing the outline of his erection through the sheets. 

“Not at,” he groaned, “all.”

She sat back, terrible person that she was, to tease him like this and then stop. At his glare, she chuckled. “Good, that’ll give you something to long for during the day. As to what I was doing, I thought it would be smart to leave before one of your maids arrives to wake you. I’ll come in through the main door later today. That should do to keep this, to keep us, a secret.” She scrunched her brow. “For now at least. I’m not sure about later.”

No, that wasn’t right. Neither of them should have to keep this quiet. That was all kinds of wrong. “I don’t want to keep this a secret. I know, a king has his duty and yada yada yada, but just this one time, I don’t care. Expectations be damned, I want to be with you and they’ll have to live with that.”

She looked at him like. Like. He should come up with something poetic, but the only comparison that popped up was “like he was a plate of fancy, Orlesian cheeses”. Saying that would kind of spoil the mood, wouldn’t it? 

Fortunately for him, Sorcha had no idea what was going on in his mind and she moved to sit on top of him, her legs straddling him. “I like it when you’re determined like that.”

“Hmm, you do?” He stole a quick kiss, his hands sliding from her legs up to the hem of her shirt.

“I do.” She ground her hips against him and his fingers dug into her buttocks. “But we should have some breakfast after all that exercise of last night. And don’t try to tell me you wouldn’t kill for fresh bread and an assortment of cheeses right now.”

Right, she did know what he’d been thinking about. Lucky man he was, to have found a woman who understood and appreciated all the important things in life. “I love you, you know that?”

“I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When rereading this yesterday, I realised the importance of editing. Instead of "His arms closed around her" I had written "Most arms closed around her". Not even all, just most, lol.
> 
> Anyway, there's only one more chapter left!


	8. The Road Ahead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Several years after Sorcha’s return to Alistair, the two of them set out on a journey. A new future awaits them.

Buttercups and sorrel filled the clearing, water trickling as it streamed from the pond down to the creak. Sorcha’s hummed tune joined the afternoon chorus of the birds as she arranged twigs and larger branches for a fire. A long shadow fell over her, but before she could look up to smile at him, a splash of cold water fell on top of her head. She shrieked, jumping up and spinning around to confront her evil, evil attacker. Alistair dashed back, not bothering to hide his laughter.

“Alistair!” she cried out, wiping away the water dripping down her face. She shivered at the trickle going down her neck.

“You said we needed washing, didn’t you?” 

“I’ll show you who needs washing,” she threatened, not quite sure herself what she meant. Anyway, it seemed to work, for he held out his hands in a peace gesture, though he was laughing still. Oh, but he wasn’t going to get away with it this easily!

A flash of brown showed through the bushes behind Alistair and Sorcha made a small gesture. Leaves rustled as Revas leapt forward, throwing Alistair to the ground. With a happy bark, Revas began licking him all over his face, not caring in the slightest about Alistair’s attempts at pushing him away. It was her time to laugh at his hopeless struggle. His muttered complaints were met with more wet licks and Revas had pinned down Alistair’s arms in a way fitting a mabari trained to fight. 

After deciding Alistair had suffered enough, she whistled for Revas to let him go.

Alistair rubbed his face with his sleeve. “Was that really necessary?” he asked, a grin threatening to break through.

“You’re the one who suggested we needed washing, didn’t you?” In a few strides, she’d joined him and hooked her arm through his. “So how about a swim? The fire can wait.”

He pressed a kiss on her crown and pulled her a little closer. “Your wish is my command, my love.”

The water was cold enough to make Alistair grimace, but Sorcha relished how it washed away her fatigue. She took a deep breath and plunged into the deeper part of the pond. Water flowed around her, its coolness pleasant on her skin after several days of travelling in the summer heat. Sunlight danced on the water, dragonflies in bold colours whirring their wings as they skirted its surface. 

A yelp and a splash made her turn around to find Alistair on his way to her. Strawberry blonde hair stuck to his forehead; he should’ve had it cut before they’d left, but other matters had taken up their time. Sorcha tilted her head, trying to picture him with his hair even longer.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were about to scold me for not shaving this morning. Or for wearing my shirt inside out. Not sure which one would be worse.”

“Wearing a shirt in the first place would be worse,” Sorcha said, meeting Alistair halfway. She ran her hand over his chest and tilted her head for a kiss. Her legs wrapped around him, skin against skin, the two of them the only thing that mattered right now. A soft moan escaped her when he ran his thumb over a nipple just the way she liked it and she nibbled his lip in return. 

A few years, or even months, weeks, days ago, they wouldn’t have waited. Not wanting to waste any bit of their precious time together, they would’ve taken this opportunity and she would’ve guided his length inside her, eager to have him to herself for a moment. He would’ve tried to restrain himself and, knowing she might leave again soon, he would eventually give in.

Now, Sorcha pulled back, slightly out of breath. “Washing, we should wash ourselves.”

Alistair raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you think we might as well get dirty first, wash later?”

She chuckled. “Wash first, then get dirty, wash again tomorrow morning?” 

When Alistair kissed her neck, she nearly regretted her words, but before she could say anything, he went to get the soap. With a sigh, she watched him walk out of the pond, water flowing from his broad shoulders down the muscles of his back. Her eyes came to rest on his perfectly firm butt. Creators, he was one handsome man and he was all hers. No more kingly duties to take up his time, no more poorly veiled hints at political marriage or producing an heir. All of that was in the past and the future would be theirs alone. Theirs, after they’d found a Cure for Alistair’s Taint. 

He’d told her about what being a Grey Warden meant shortly after her return to Denerim, after waking up from a nightmare involving darkspawn. She’d felt defeated first, angry that he too would leave her, but anger had turned to determination to be together. Her contacts all throughout Thedas had helped her search for clues of a cure and help had come from an unexpected place: Morrigan. 

Sorcha watched as Alistair took a small wooden box out of their belongings and carefully put it aside. All their hope was on the map and the scraps of paper with barely readable cypher in that box. There was also a vial filled with some dark and viscous liquid. 

As if feeling her stare, he looked around. A broad grin lit up his face when their eyes met like he was surprised at finding her there, and he turned back to his task. A pang of regret shot through Sorcha’s chest. She’d been away far too often, especially in the last year. There had always been another Alienage that needed her to mediate between them and the city council, another bann that mistreated the elves living on their lands or another clue to chase. Convenient excuses to flee the whispering tongues and staring eyes of the court. Most nobles had accepted her—more or less—but that didn’t mean her every step wasn’t scrutinised. But all that was in the past too, she’d done what she could to help improve the conditions of her kin living in the cities and now they would have to learn how to do things themselves. It scared her, to leave something she’d worked hard for behind, but she had to believe there were enough good people on both sides to make this work. 

Water splashing wildly around him, Alistair joined her again. In his hands was one of the rose-scented bars of soap Catriona had given them before they left. Made with Highever roses.

“So,” Alistair said as he was working up a lather to soap his hair, “do you think Bann Vigard has driven Fergus crazy yet?” 

To their surprise, the Bann had been one of the most vehement opposers of Alistair’s abdication in favour of Fergus. The plan Alistair, Sorcha and Fergus had come up with to slowly transfer more duties to Fergus had worked well enough to gather solid support when they’d finally discussed the matter in the Landsmeet. The few voices of dissent had quieted when they realised it would be better to have a king who already had an heir than one who didn’t show any signs of producing one, not even one that was illegitimate. Theirin-blood was of little use when the line wouldn’t continue. 

“I’m more curious whether Catriona has found out the cook has been spoiling Bryce and Conall. Those two boys have only to look at the cook and she sneaks them yet another cream-filled pastry.”

Alistair’s eyes widened. “Wait, is that what happened to those pastries? I knew some had disappeared when I—” He shut his mouth tight, shooting her an anxious look.

“When you what, my dear?” Sorcha asked in her sweetest voice. 

He groaned when she caressed his chest. “Fine, when I went to the kitchen in the middle of the night. I was hungry, all right?”

She bent over to whisper in his ear, “And you didn’t think to wake me to join you for a midnight snack? I’m feeling left out here.” As soon as she’d said the words, she splashed water in his face and he gasped in surprise. Soon, they were chasing each other across the pond, laughing and splashing water, and, deciding this was too much fun to miss out on, Revas joined them.

After they’d washed, they sat down in the sun on a blanket to dry. Sorcha closed her eyes as Alistair detangled her hair. She’d been hesitant about letting it grow, but Alistair had promised he’d wash and brush it for her. Not that she really needed that, with some oil, it was smooth enough that she could handle it even with one hand, but she wasn’t going to say no to feeling Alistair’s fingers on her scalp, his gentle touch as he pulled the brush through her hair and the soft kisses he placed on her shoulders every now and then.

A kiss on her shoulder was followed by one in the crook of her neck and she hummed. Alistair divided her hair into parts and set to braiding. His fingers touched her skin as light as the wings of a butterfly each time he pulled a strand over another and she shivered. He stopped braiding to run a finger down her spine, making her sit up straighter. She knew he was doing it on purpose, all these touches that made her shiver and gasp, and truth be told, she quite enjoyed the teasing. 

Each caress was echoed by a throbbing between her legs and she was all too aware of how naked they both were. He bound the braid with a leather strip, then sat closer to her, cupping her breasts. 

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” he asked, before nibbling at her ear. He rolled a nipple between his forefinger and thumb and pulses shot from there straight down. One hand wandered down and she leaned back, tilting her hips upwards. Her cross-legged position meant she was open, ready for him to—

A gasp caught in her throat when he moved a finger over her opening. He circled her clit, using just enough pressure to make her ache for more, then entered her. He drew back, her wetness shining on his finger as he rubbed her clit before sliding back in. A second finger spread her wider and she reached behind her, pulling him closer as her hips bucked up. He could make her come with the slightest touch—he’d demonstrated that often enough—but this time, he chose to draw out her pleasure. 

Well, two could play that game.

She twisted around and pushed him on his back. Keeping her eyes locked with his, she took his hand and brought it to her mouth. With the tip of her tongue, she tasted her own lust on his fingers. He groaned when she took both fingers in her mouth and sucked her own taste off them. But that was only the start.

Following the thin line of hairs down his stomach, her kisses reached his hard length. His skin was smooth and warm in her mouth and his breathing turned to ragged gasps as she took him in as deep as she could, again and again. He pleaded her for release, but she kept him balancing on that edge, revelling in the feeling that she could do this to him. When she tasted a drip of him, she let him go with a grin. 

Through half-lidded eyes, he watched as she lowered herself on top of him, letting him slide inside her bit by bit. It never failed to amaze her how good he felt, how he would stretch her, how he went exactly deep enough. They moved together in a slow rhythm, neither in a hurry to have this end. They didn’t have to hurry, they had all the time they needed.

She rocked her hips and he began thrusting up. Gasps and whispered endearments filled the air and he met her each movement. Faster and faster, flesh slapping against flesh, wet, wanton noises coming from where he thrust into her, reaching just the right spot.

Her nails dug into his shoulder, his fingers pressing into her hips. A rough thrust that hit her deep. Enough to drive her over the edge and let that sweet build-up pleasure explode. He spilt into her with a last, jerking movement.

* * *

He followed the lines of her forehead, her nose, her lips as she lay next to him, the morning light making sharp shadows on her skin. A perfect, peaceful moment.

Next thing he knew, a ball of brown fur jumped between them, pushing Alistair aside to cuddle with Sorcha. So far for peaceful. She opened her eyes with a smile, the most beautiful smile, and scratched Revas behind his ears.

“I love you, you silly boy,” Sorcha cooed. Revas wagged his tail happily, slapping Alistair’s leg.

Alistair huffed. “Right, don’t mind me. I know when I’m not welcome anymore.”

Sorcha’s laughter rang across the clearing. “Ow, love, are you feeling jealous?” 

Alistair looked around, eyebrows jumping up as if confused. “What, me? Are you referring to me?”

She reached over Revas’s back to put Alistair’s hair behind his ear and he had to smile at the gesture. He caught her hand and kissed the inside of her wrist. Her eyes closed and he’d swear she purred.

No moment would ever be perfect, but as long as she was with him, things were as perfect as they could be.

* * *

Sorcha stepped onto the forest path that would lead them west and took Alistair’s hand. No telling where each step on the path to her—their—future would bring them, but she didn’t mind. She knew the most important thing: that she’d face it with Alistair at her side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We’ve reached the end of the journey of Sorcha and Alistair. When I wrote the first part of this series, I had no idea it would lead to this, but they both deserved that happy ending, so it had to be written.
> 
> Thank you for reading, leaving kudos or comments, it really means a lot. I’d love to hear your thoughts on Sorcha and Alistair’s story or about what will happen after their search for the Cure. Will they succeed? Will they settle somewhere or keep travelling Thedas? Will Zevran join them? Some questions remain unanswered, but I know they’ll be together <3


End file.
